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THE BURIAL OF THE GYPSY BABE 


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THE BURIAL of the 
GYPSY BABE 

and 

OTHER POEMS 


By 

Herbert Etheridge 



1923 

THE STRATFORD CO., Publishers 
Boston, Massachusetts 










Copyright, 1923 

The STRATFORD CO., Publishers 
Boston, Mass. 


The Alpine Press, Boston, Mass., XT. S. A. 


JAN 12 ’23 

©C1A69G048 


PREFACE 


NTICIPATING the intelligent critic of 



±JL 4 ‘The Burial of the Gypsy Babe and 
Other Poems/ ’ it may be well for me to say 
that in writing them, simplicity has been my 
aim. Someone has said that “Every man is a 
poet once in life.” If this be true, then all men 
like poetry of some kind. I have not 
attempted to write as‘ ‘ The bards sublime, whose 
distant footsteps echo down the corridors of 
time”; but like “Some humbler poet whose 
songs gushed from his heart.” It has been my 
purpose to write of common folk and common 
things in words that a man may read while he 


runs. 


Through “The Burial of the Gypsy Babe and 
Other Poems” I would sit down and weep with 
those who are weeping, pray with those who 
have lost faith, and then when our tears are 
dried and faith recovered, arise, lock arms, and 
go down the road of life together, laughing. 


HERBERT ETHERIDGE, 
Sparks, Ga., Nov. 11, 1922. 




TO ALL THE PEOPLE IN THE WIDE, WIDE WORLD WHO 
HAVE NEVER HAD ANYTHING DEDICATED TO 
THEM, I MOST AFFECTIONATELY 
DEDICATE THIS BOOK OF 


POEMS 



















/ 


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■> 


































CONTENTS 


Page \ 

The Burial of the Gypsy Babe ... 1 

The Trail of Wondrous Beauty ... 5 

My Wish.7 

Wherever the Savior Reigns ... 8 

“E-ternity Where?”.10 

Real Music.12 

Mother’s Bible ...... 14 

Jerry Brown.17 

The Old Home Church . . . .19 

The Miser . . . . , . .21 

Thy Will Be Done, Lord . . . .23 

Giving.. . 25 

The Old Ship O’ Zion.27 

In the Sweet By and By . . ,29 

A-Feeling After God.31 

A Letter to My Conscience . . . .33 

The New Day.36 

My Yow.38 

Me and My Dog.40 

My Pal.42 

A Rowdy Little Rascal . . . .44 

In God’s Great Big Out of Doors . . 46 





CONTENTS 


Page 

Old School Days.48 

A Gentle-Man.50 

Disgusted.52 

That Brat of Mine.54 

The Ragged Boy.56 

Just Keep on Puttin’ Out . . . .58 

Consolation.60 

Up Against It.62 

Sweet Potato Pie.64 

Go to It.66 

Seeing One’s Self.68 

His Alma Mater . . ' . . .70 

De Nigger’s Hour.71 

The Chicken Gizzard.72 

Settin’ Down.74 

Ham A-Frying.76 

His First Kiss.77 

If I Could Hold Her Hand .... 79 

Spring Fever.81 

Pa.83 

A Lot O’ Living.85 

Stung Again.87 

Help! Help!.88 

Mary’s Little Dress.90 

Why the Flapper Giggles . . . .91 

A-Hunting Hen’s Nest . . . .92 





CONTENTS 


Page 

Bereaved.94 

Lookin’ Back’ards.96 

A Pleasant Time.99 











V 













The Burial of the Gypsy Babe 


F ROM whence they came I do not know 
I know they came, a Gypsy hand. 
The day was old when they arrived 
And pitched their tents around a spring 
That bubbled ’midst a clump of trees 
Just on the outskirts of the town. 

The night came on, and in their homes 
The village folk slumbered and slept, 
Unmindful of a dying child 
Who lay upon a bed of straw 
Inside a tent down by the spring, 
Unconscious of the patient care 
With which a mother sought to stay 
The grim and ghostly hand of death. 

When morning came to clear away, 

The shadows night had strewn around, 
There was within the Gypsy camp 
A shadow day could not remove — 

The Nomad child lay cold in death. 

The Gypsy men procured some boards 

w 


THE BURIAL OF THE GYPSY BABE 


And with the use of borrowed tools 
They made a coffin, strong though crude,. 

In which to lay the child away. 

The Gypsy woman made a shroud 
With which to wrap the body in. 

The men then took the sleeping child 

And gently laid it in the box 

And firmly hammered down the lid. 

Then, hitching ill-matched, jaded mules 
To wagons painted gaudy hues, 

Using the best one for a hearse, 

The Gypsy band then climbed aboard 
And started off to find a plot 
In which to make the little grave. 

The merchants busy with their wares, 

The mothers busy in their homes, 

The children busy at their play — 

All stopped and looked through curious eyes 
As this unique procession filed 
Its way along the crowded streets. 

About a mile beyond the town, 

Upon the shoulder of a hill, 

Beneath a spreading water oak, 

They grabbled out a shallow hole 
And laid the Nomad child to rest. 


M 


AND OTHER POEMS 


No hymns were sung, no prayers were said, 
No verse of Scripture there was read. 

If you should ever pass that way, 

You’ll see that baby’s grave unkept. 

No flowers decorate the mound 
Except the golden autumn leaves 
That flitter from the water oak. 

No tears are dropped upon the spot 
Save when the storm clouds brood above 
And shed their tears in drops of rain. 

But I am not concerned about 
The Gypsy baby sleeping there ; 

For when the Lord shall call His own, 

I know He’ll not forget the spot, 

That little mound upon the hill. 

For that mother I am concerned. 

Had you gone to the Gypsy camp 
That afternoon, you would have heard 
A Gypsy mother weeping sore — 

Like Rachel of the long ago — 

Because her precious babe was not. 

She’s nothing hut a wanderer 
Arrayed in flaming calico, 

But ’neath that flaming calico 
There beats a mother’s broken heart 
That’s bleeding for her darling child. 


THE BURIAL OF THE GYPSY BABE 


Think you she’ll meet it by and by? 
I’m not so sure. You ask me why? 
So few there be who love her soul 
And fewer still to tell her of 
The Christ who died to save her soul. 


M 


AND OTHER POEMS 


The Trail of Wondrous Beauty 

T HERE’S a trail of wondrous beauty 
Running through this life of duty; 
A way that’s straight and narrow 
But ’tis wide enough for two. 

In this way is no disaster 
For ’twas opened by the Master. 

Would you journey in this highway? 
Jesus waits to walk with you. 

’Tis a way of righteous living 
And a sacrificial giving 
Of yourself to God, will gain for 
You a permit on this road. 

It is ever upward trending 
But a gracious God is lending 
Strength sufficient for each pilgrim, 

And He ’ll bear your heavy load. 

In this way is love abounding, 

And a joy that is astounding, 

And peace to merge the shadows 
Into perfect, blissful day. 

[5] 


THE BURIAL OF THE GYPSY BABE 


Yon can never find it lonely, 

If you’ll trust the Savior only, 

For He’s promised to go with you, 
And He’ll cheer you all the way. 

There’s a trail of wondrous beauty 
Running through this life of duty; 
A way that’s straight and narrow 
In which all the Saints have trod. 
From the cross it has descended 
At the gates of heaven ended. 

Come and walk thou in it brother, 
It will lead you home to God. 


[6] 


AND OTHER POEMS 


My Wish 

S ometimes i think im like to be 

A man of great celebrity, 

And have the papers up and down 
The earth proclaim my great renown; 
And dying, leave behind a name 
Emblazoned on the scroll of fame. 

And then I think of Him who wept 
Those tears of love where Lazarus slept. 
Who had no place to lay His head, 

Nor shelter but the sky o’er head. 

’Tis then I’m thankful for the call 
To be the smallest of the small. 

Just let me walk the lowly ways, 

The ways in which He spent His days. 
Just let me be the sinner’s friend, 

And dying, let my journey’s end 
Reveal some tracks upon life’s sod 
To show some soul the way to God. 


[7] 


THE BURIAL OF THE GYPSY BABE 


Wherever the Savior Reigns 

I ENTERED once a home and found 
’Twas aglow with love; 

Its atmosphere was like a breath 
Wafted from above. 

I asked them where their fount of joy, 

Where their secret spring. 

They answered: “In our home we’ve crowned 
The Savior King.” 

I know a home wherein abides 
Unspeakable joy. 

Though poverty is there, it seems 
Never to annoy. 

I sought to find how they o’ercame 
Want’s persistent sting 
And found that in their home they’d crowned 
The Savior King. 

I sat beside a man who lay 
Waiting death’s release; 

And though his body suffered much, 

In his heart was peace. 

[8] 


AND OTHER POEMS 


I took his hand and asked what power 
Helped him bear his pains. 

He faintly whispered: “In my life 
The Savior reigns. ’’ 

Wherever the Savior reigns, 

Love, joy, and peace abound; 

And only where Jesus reigns 
Are these things to be found. 

You may search wherever you will 
The wide, wide world around, 

And you’ll find them only where 
The Savior reigns. 


[ 9 ] 


THE BURIAL OP THE GYPSY BABE 


‘‘E-ternity Where?” 


D ROWSILY musing, I sat by the grate, 
Watching the smouldering coal; 

Lazily musing, I sat though ’twas late, 
Dreaming of death and the soul, 

When through the stillness was borne on the 
air 

The tick of the clock that stood o’er the stair, 
Saying in monotone measured and clear, 

4 4 E-ternity where ? E-ternity where ? ’ ’ 

Strangely convicted, I rose from my seat, 
Ruing my prodigal years; 

Deeply convicted, I rose to my feet, 

Choking with penitent tears, 

When in deep agony I seemed to hear 

The wail of souls lost in hopeless despair, 
And the clock saying: Beware, 0 beware — 

44 E-ternity there, e-ternity there.” 

Contrite in spirit, I knelt by my chair, 

Pleading His blood and His love. 

Humble in spirit, I knelt there in prayer, 
Prayer to the Father above. 

[ 10 ] 


AND OTHER POEMS 


When His voice thrilled me and filled me with 
cheer 

Eternity here, eternity here. 

And the clock echoed His words in my ear: 
“E-ternity here, e-ternity here.” 


THE BURIAL OF THE GYPSY BABE 


Real Music 

Y OU MAY like grand opera music 
It’s according to the taste, 

But when sung into these ears of mine 
It’s singing sung to waste. 

I like hymns of praise and promise 
Tunes that to the mem’ry cling; 

Songs that satisfy and soothe me 
Like those songs we preachers sing. 

When my years’ work has been finished 
And to Conference I go, 

Kinder weary from my labors, 

And my spirit sorter low; 

I forget my tired feelings 
For my joy’s a real thing 
When I hear the wondrous music 
Of those songs we preachers sing. 

When I’m gone and you are paying 
A last tribute to my name, 

Talk not of my humble life’s work, 

I’ll not have a claim to fame; 

[12] 


AND OTHER POEMS 


Have a brother read the old hymn 
“Children of the heavenly King” 
And another raise the tune, and 
Then let all the preachers sing. 

Sing it in the spirit comrades, 

Ill he listening there on high, 

And be waiting there to join you 
When you’ve laid your armor by; 
Then when we are there together, 
We will make the heavens ring 
Singing love’s redemption story 
In the presence of the King. 


[i3] 


THE BURIAL OF THE GYPSY BABE 


Mother’s Bible 

NLIKE the most of men, I have 



No touching reminiscences 


To tell of mother’s love and care, 
Because she went to live with God 
When I was but a little boy. 

I often search the studio 

That memory has given me 

In hopes of seeing her dear face; 

But all the picture that I find 
Of her is one grown dim with age. 

It shows her in the old arm chair 
With open Bible in her hands, 

Her features hidden underneath 
The checkered bonnet that she wore. 

I vividly recall the day 

On which her spirit passed away, 

Although not with her when she died. 

I was somewhere about the home, 

But was not told that death was near; 
They thought I could not understand, 
Because I was so very young. 




AND OTHER POEMS 


They carried her back to the old 
Country churchyard to bury her. 

A neighbor came to care for me 
Until the family returned. 

This neighbor put me in my bed 
That night after my prayers were said. 
Telling me that I must be good 
And meet my mother dear in heaven, 

For she was now an angel there. 

Then when good nights were said, she took 
The light and left me in the dark 
To sleep; but I was lonely since 
Mother had gone and could not sleep, 

So I stole out of bed and went 
And sat down on the kitchen steps. 

My dog Fido came up and licked 
My feet, then looked into my face 
And whined a sympathetic whine. 

Methinks I saw some tears fall from 
His eyes, but I’m not sure of this, 

For these things happened years ago. 

The moon was lost behind a cloud, 

But stars were shining overhead, 

And I sat there upon the steps 
Trying to see behind the stars. 

They told me that my mother dear 


THE BURIAL OF THE GYPSY BABE 


Had gone to be an angel there, 

And I tried hard, so hard to see 

Some angels, thinking all the while 

That if I should see some they all 

Would have checked bonnets on their heads, 

For mother wore a checked bonnet. 

No farewell message from her lips 
Was mine to cheer me through the years, 
When days are dark and nights are long; 
No mother’s prayers ring in my ears; 

Those hymns of faith she used to sing 
Have not been mine to thrill my soul. 

But the Bible she loved and read 
Is mine, thank God, to love and read. 

It was her guide from earth to heaven, 

God helping me, I’ll make it mine! 


AND OTHER POEMS 


Jerry Brown 

F OR FORTY years old Jerry Brown 

Proclaimed the Gospel up and down 
The regions of the river Rhim. 

And multitudes there are who say 
That Jerry helped them in his day, 

But little help were they to him. 

When Jerry’s strength was all but spent, 
God looked o’er heaven’s battlement 
And saw that he had done his best; 

So sent a message from His throne— 

A message tender in its tone, 

“Jerry come up and take a rest.” 

The people came from far, and near, 

To drop a tear on Jerry’s bier, 

And bank bright flowers ’round the room. 
In life Brown loved bright flower banks, 
But dead, he spoke no word of thanks, 

He could not smell their sweet perfume. 

[i7] 


THE BURIAL OF THE GYPSY BABE 


The meanest wish of Jerry’s life 
Was for a home to leave his wife; 

He left a deed to penury. 

She’s minus raiment, minus bread, 
She’s minus shelter for her head, 

An object of cold charity. 

Behold the harvest fields are white! 
But laborers are not in sight 
To take the place of those who die. 
While Satan reaps the ripened grain, 
The Master calls for help in vain. 

I wonder what can be the why? 


AND OTHER POEMS 


The Old Home Church 

T ODAY I turned aside to see 

My old home Church Mt. Calvary; 

And my heart was tilled with dismay 
To find it fallen to decay. 

Her pews are covered thick with dust, 

The stove and pipe are marred by rust, 

Her carpets rot upon the floor, 

And boards are nailed across the door. 

Rodents have torn the old hymn books 
And made them beds in secret nooks, 

The organ, husky in its throat, 

Gave to my touch a quiv ’ring note, 

A Holy Bible stained with age, 

With here and there a missing page, 

Lay on the stand, but read no more 
Since boards are nailed across the door. 

Dead silence reigns about the place 
Where once was preached God’s saving grace 
No prayers are said, no glad amens, 

No penitents weep o’er their sins. 

[19] 


THE BURIAL OF THE GYPSY BABE 


No witnesses for God are heard, 

No hearts to better impulse stirred 
As in the happy days of yore, 

For boards are nailed across the door. 

I asked a man who lived near by 
If he could tell the reason why 
The old Church on the hill had died; 

In rural accent, he replied: 

“We searched the country all around 
But not a pastor could be found; 

And though it made our hearts ache sore, 
We met and boarded up the door.” 


[20] 


AND OTHER POEMS 


The Miser 

S AY, YOU, with your strangle hold 
On your hag of cankered gold; 
You who live only for self; 

You, whose only God is pelf; 

You, with a metallic soul, 

Getting, keeping, as your goal! 
Should your years be threescore ten, 
Then, 
when 

You come to die 
And your life is valued by 
What you did to bless the earth, 

How much will it then be worth ? 


There will come a time my friend, 
When your hoarding days shall end; 
Then grim death will take the key 
To your safe, and you will be 
Brought before the judgment bar 
And be judged by what you are, 

Not by gold you now possess. 

[21] 


THE BURIAL OP THE GYPSY BABE 

Stress 

Less 

The things of earth 
And cultivate abiding worth, 

Or a pauper you will be 
Throughout God’s eternity. 


[ 22 ] 


AND OTHER POEMS 


Thy Will Be Done, Lord 

I F I MUST travel the roughest of roads, 

Thy will be done, Lord, Thy will be done. 
If I must carry the greatest of loads, 

Thy will be done, Lord, Thy will be done. 

Or, if perchance in the course of the years, 

My eyes must swim in the bitterest tears, 

I humbly pray 
That I can say: 

Thy will be done, Lord, Thy will be done. 

If I must suffer that others may live, 

Thy will be done, Lord, Thy will be done. 

111 count it an honor my life thus to give, 

Thy will be done, Lord, Thy will be done. 
Ill bear my cross with a resolute heart 
If in the bearing it I can have part 
In winning men 
From paths of sin; 

Thy will be done, Lord, Thy will be done. 

[23] 


THE BURIAL OF THE GYPSY BABE 


When tempted by worldly ambition and pride, 
Thy will be done, Lord, Thy will be done. 
Keep me from yielding whatever betide ; 

Thy will be done, Lord, Thy will be done. 
Mould Thou my heart by Thy pattern Divine, 
Take it and break it and make it all Thine, 
That I may say 
From day to day, 

Thy will be done, Lord, Thy will be done. 


[ 24 ] 


AND OTHER POEMS 


Giving 

(Arranged) 

}r|~MS NOT giving to pluck a rose 
I From garden blossoms filled; 

The tear that falls from ready eye 
Is not by pain distilled. 

’Tis not giving to filch from wealth 
A tithe for some poor one; 

Would one ray be a bounty from 
A tropical summer sun? 

Giving is when the garden soil 
Mother’s a single flower, 

And it is plucked by one knows 
The need of some heart’s hour. 

Giving is when the widows mite, 
Guiltless of any gain, 

Drops from a hand made rough by toil, 
To ease another’s pain. 

[>5] 


THE BURIAL OF THE GYPSY BABE 


When God the Father made His gift, 
He made the ideal one, 

Not of His angels did He give, 

He gave His only Son. 


[26] 


AND OTHER POEMS 


The Old Ship O’ Zion 

HERE’LL be multitudes o’ people 



_X_ Crowded ’round the Glory pier 
Lookin’ out—with wistful eyes— 


across the main, 


Like they half expected home-folks 
Were a-comin’ over there; 

When the old ship o’ Zion sails again. 

There’ll be lots o’ angel children 
Gathered ’round the Glory pier 
Jumpin’ up an’ down, an’ shoutin’ in 


refrain: 


We’re a-goin’ to meet our fathers 
An’ our mothers over here; 

When the old ship o’ Zion sails again. 

There’ll be fathers there an’ mothers 
Standin’ lookin’ out to sea— 

God forbid that they shall stand an’ 
look in vain! 

Who’ll be happy an’ excited there— 
Expectin’ you an’ me— 

When the old ship o’ Zion sails again. 


[27] 


THE BURIAL OF THE GYPSY BABE 


Won’t we have a heap o’ livin’ 

Over on the Glory shore ? 

No more sighin’, no more dyin’ no 
more pain, 

No more darkness, no more thirstin,’ 

An’ we’ll hunger never more; 

When the old ship o’ Zion sails again. 

Let’s all take the ship o’ Zion 
She’s a vessel tried an’ true; 

Christ the pilot knows Death’s Sea’s 
uncharted lane. 

He has landed countless thousands 
An’ can safely transport us; 

When the old ship o’ Zion sails again. 


AND OTHER POEMS 


In the Sweet By and By 

I KNOW not why the tend’rest feet must 
sometimes tread the roughest road. 

I know not why the weakest back must some¬ 
times bear the greatest load. 

I do not know the reason why 

The bravest heart must sometimes sigh; 

But it will be 
Made clear to me 
In the sweet by and by. 

I know not why my lot in life is oftentimes so 
hard to bear; 

But this I know, I live in faith that sometime 
God will make it clear. 

Then I will know the reason why 
The storm clouds marred my sunlight sky; 
For it will be 
Made clear to me 
In the sweet by and by. 

[29] 


THE BURIAL OF THE GYPSY BABE 

A few more years, a few more tears, and then 
my race will have been run; 

The toils of life forever past, the battle fought, 
the vie ’try won. 

On wings of love I then will fly 
To joys that wait for me on high. 

My sorrows here, 

Forgotten there, 

In the sweet by and by. 

In the sweet by and by, in the sweet by and by; 
When I reach that happy land, 

Things I can’t now understand 
Will be made clear to me in the sweet by and by. 


[30] 


AND OTHER POEMS 


A-Feeling After God 

O N A chilly winter morning 

I just love to find some place 
In the olden golden sunshine 
And sit gazing into space; 
Looking, looking ’way off yonder 
In a sorter serious nod, 

Just a-thinking, and a-dreaming 
And a-feeling after God. 

I’m not mad nor sad nor selfish 
When you see me sitting down 
In the yellow mellow sunshine 

With my face wreathed in a frown 
I’m a-living on the mountains 
When I sit around and nod, 

Just a-thinking, and a-dreaming, 

And a-feeling after God. 

If I only had the language 
Or the power to impart 
Something of the deep emotions 
That come tugging at my heart; 

[3i] 


THE BURIAL OF THE GYPSY BABE 


You would know full well the reason 
Why I sit around and nod, 

Just a-thinking and a-drearning, 

And a-feeling after God. 

Some day I will be made perfect 
And that happy day I’ll bless, 

For I’ll then have words to utter 
Thoughts I can not now express; 
Then I’ll halt the host of heaven 
As the golden streets I trod, 

With an humble exhibition 
In the art of praising God. 


[32] 


AND OTHER POEMS 


A Letter to My Conscience 

C onscience, sir: To you I’m writing 

Just a line or two to say 
That I’m awful tired of being 
Chided by you night and day. 

Why do you persist in bringing 
To my mind in bold outline 
Grinning ghouls as a reminder 
Of those evil deeds of mine ? 

Why torment me when I’m sleeping 
And strike terror to my heart 
By those grim and ghostly nightmares 
That arose me with a start? 

Do you show me death’s perdition 
That from it I may divine 
Something of the fate that ’waits me 
For those evil deeds of mine? 

I’ve tried hard, so hard to shake you, 

But it is of no avail; 

Night and day you haunt my footsteps 
Like a hound upon my trail. 

[33] 


THE BURIAL OF THE GYPSY BABE 


Why unveil my life in shadow, 

Robbing it of all sunshine 
By reminding me each moment 
Of those evil deeds of mine? 

Even while I write this letter 
I see pictures that appall— 

Pictures of a thousand devils 
Dancing on the papered wall. 

Ev ’ry figure, ev ’ry flower 
In the wall-paper’s design 
Holds a bunch of demons, gloating, 

0 ’er those evil deeds of mine. 

Conscience, tell me, please, what are you? 

Are you just the man within 
Just the moral nature in me 
That abhors a life of sin; 

Or some haunted, taunted spirit 
From damnation’s dark confine, 
Warning me of retribution 
For those evil deeds of mine. 

Postscript. 

Since the lines above were written 
Quite a change has taken place 
In my life, for I’ve found Jesus, 

Who has saved me by His grace. 

[ 34 ] 


AND OTHER POEMS 


And the joy that fills my soul, sir, 
Is beyond words to define, 

Since His blessed blood has covered 
All those evil deeds of mine. 


[ 35 ] 


THE BURIAL OF THE GYPSY BABE 


The New Day 

D OUBT, thou damning superstition, 
Mate of the evil one, 

You block the vision of the soul, 

And cloak the morning sun. 

Fear, greed, malice and prejudice, 
Nurse at your pois’nous breast 
You feed upon the souls of men 
Destroying all that’s best. 

You nailed the Savior to the cross, 

And spilled His precious blood; 

You burned the martyrs at the stake, 
Made Rome a crimson flood. 

Ignorance is your only shield, 

You can’t withstand the light; 

As truth advances you recede 
Into your hellish night. 

But in the world God’s voice is heard 
Above the din and strife, 

And righteousness shall yet prevail, 

Then liberty, and life. 

[ 36 ] 


AND OTHER POEMS 


The shades of night are fading fast, 
The dawn of love shines in, 

And with it comes the consciousness 
Of brotherhood of men. 


[ 37 ] 


THE BURIAL OF THE GYPSY BABE 


My Vow 

O FTENTIMES I go a-wading in the world’s 
great lake of thought; 

Just a-sloshing ’round for ideas where master 
minds have wrought. 

And anon I see a-floating on the lake, in dim 
outline, 

Some rare intellectual treasure and I try to 
make it mine. 

But the water is too deep for one who never 
learned to swim, 

And my arms so very short that I can’t reach 
the precious gem. 

So my wading and my sloshing gives the lake 
a muddy hue; 

And the prize I so much coveted is hidden from 
my view. 

Yet I will not sit repining over things 4 ‘that 
might have been” 

But will do my best to fill some place in lowly 
walks of men. 

If I cannot be a mammoth whale, and swim the 
deep blue sea; 


[ 38 ] 


AND OTHER POEMS 


I will be the gamest minnow that is possible 
for me. 

This my vow: From this day onward, freely, 
gladly, I will give 

My life to inspire some young man to prepare 
himself to live; 

And I’ll do my bit, from day to day to leave 
posterity 

Better chance for education than my fathers 
left to me. 


[ 39 ] 


THE BURIAL OF THE GYPSY BABE 


Me and My Dog 

G O ’WAY from here yon yellow hound 
And stop following me around; 

As soon as I set down some place, 

You stick your cold nose in my face! 

Take your wet feet out of my lap 
Before your silly head I slap, 

You lazy, crazy, rabbit hound! 

Come here to me my dear old hound 
Don’t let my tongue your feelings wound; 
I’ve had a spat with wife, and she, 

As usual, got the best of me. 

’Twas cowardly, and awful mean 
Of me to come and vent my spleen 
On you, my good old, nice old hound! 

I’ve not forgot that time old hound 
When sleet and snow covered the ground, 
And I lay all night in the street 
So drunk I could not gain my feet; 

And how the men who saw me there 
Passed on with a contemptous stare. 

But you stayed with me, faithful hound! 

[ 40 ] 


AND OTHER POEMS 


But listen pup, I’m giving up 
Forevermore the liquor cup; 

I will not grieve the God above 
Who loves me with unending love; 

Were I in sin’s black misery 
So deep that you’d not bark at me, 

He’d love me still and take me up. 

Come on, let’s take a walk old hound 
And see if some place can’t be found 
Where we can laze around and muse, 

And smoke our pipe, and take a snooze. 
This seems to be a good place dog, 

Here in the shade beside this log. 

Here ! Here! Come here, down, lie down, 
hound! 


[4i] 


THE BURIAL OF THE GYPSY BABE 


My Pal 


S HE ain’t more ’n half as purty 
As she wus some years ago, 

When she started out to walk with 
Me life’s path for weal or woe; 

She is got some sorter ailment 
That the Doctors can’t find out 
An’ she’s gettin’ so here lately 
That she cannot get about. 

All the bright is left her eyes 

An’ from her cheeks the red is gone, 
An’ the wrinkles in her face show 
What great suff’ring she has done. 
But in all of her afflictions 
She has been a patient Gal, 

An’ in ev’ry sorter weather, 

She has been a faithful Pal. 


Now that she is gone to ailin’ 

An’ is needin’ help the most 
I will not begrudge my time to her 
Nor stop to count the cost; 

[ 42 ] 


AND OTHER POEMS 


But if God will spare her to me, 

By His gracious help I will 
Give to her my best attention 
Just to prove I love her still. 

She may alius be quite helpless 
An’ a constant care on me, 

But if death should come an’ take her 
I would miss her mightly; 

So I’m praying that she’ll linger 
With me many years to come, 

Fer my house would seem so lonesome 
’Thout my Pal to make it home. 


[ 43 ] 


THE BURIAL OF THE GYPSY BABE 


A Rowdy Little Rascal 

H E’S A rowdy little rascal 
For a fellow of his years; 

Just a bunch of fuss and frolic 
Sandwiched in between his tears. 

That he’s more than double trouble 
To his mother shell agree; 

And the pesky little rounder 
Often gets the best of me. 

So, when Auntie came the other day 
And nothing else would do 
But that she must take him home with her 
To spend a week or two, 

Wife and I said she could take him, 
Thinking that we would enjoy 
A few days of peace and quiet 
’Thout the bother of the boy. 

But when I sit down at table 
And no noisy kidlet there, 

I can’t eat my meals for looking 
At his vacant high-arm chair. 

[ 44 ] 


AND OTHER POEMS 


Wife pretends she doesn’t miss him 
But there’s no pep in her chat; 
And I know her heart is hungry 
For the rowdy little brat. 

While ago I caught her bending 
O’er his little trundle bed, 

Just a-kissing of the pillow 
Where he lays his tousled head. 
And I’ve come to the conclusion 
That as soon as day is come, 

I will crank up old ‘ ‘ Tin Lizzie ’ ’ 
And go fetch the buggar home. 


[ 45 ] 


THE BURIAL OF THE GYPSY BABE 


In God’s Great Big Out of Doors 

51% TIDST the hurry, and worry, and heat, of 
1VI the street, 

I find myself longing to beat a retreat 
To the sun loving, fun loving ways of boy days, 
When life was all living, and living complete 
In God’s great big out of doors. 

When, unhampered, I scampered a glad coun¬ 
try lad, 

Immune from life’s dangers—the sad and the 
bad— 

Just a rollicking, frolicking boy full of joy, 
A-rambling around o ’er the fields with my Dad, 
In God’s great big out of doors. 

To be lolling, or strolling at will by the mill, 

Or to have as in those days, my fill of the thrill 
Of a dash in and splash in the pond, just beyond 
The moss covered waste gate, when nature, was 
still 

In God’s great big out of doors. 

[ 46 ] 


AND OTHER POEMS 


But the hurry, and worry, and heat of the 
street 

Must now he my portion to greet as is meet; 

Still, the sun loving, fun loving ways of hoy 
days 

Are haunting my mem’ry, for life then was 
sweet 

In God’s great big out of doors. 


[ 47 ] 


THE BURIAL OF THE GYPSY BABE 


Old School Days 

I F I could have my wishes for 
Today, I’d choose to he 
A barefoot country boy again 
Down on the farm, and free. 

I’d choose to go to school again 
In days when ’twas the rule 
To teach the blueback spelling book 
In ev’ry country school. 

I’d choose to take a dinner pail 
And swing it on my arm. 

And walk to school again as when 
I lived down on the farm. 

I’d choose to sit down in the shade 
With bucket ’tween my knees, 
An eat my dinner, list’ning 
To the wind sigh in the trees. 

I’d choose to pour a flask of syrup 
In a bucket lid 

And sop it with a biscuit, like 
We old-time school boys did. 


[48] 


AND OTHER POEMS 

I’d choose to have a yellow dog 
A-wagging of his tail 
As he stood by and waited for 
His dinner from the pail. 

I’d choose to see her smile again— 
That old schoolmate of mine, 
And feel again the thrill of joy 
Run up and down my spine. 

I guess I’ll go up stairs at once 
And give her cheeks a pat 
And see her smile again, for wife 
Will always smile at that. 


[49] 


THE BURIAL OF THE GYPSY BABE 


A Gentle-Man 

W HEN the dinner hour is over 

And the evening prayers are said, 
An d that tousled-headed brat 
Of mine is tucked away in bed. 

Wife and I in conversation 
Find the keenest sort of joy 
As we sit and plan the future 
Of the rough and tumble boy. 

She would have him ever near her 
Tugging at her apron string— 

Have him be a mother’s darling— 

“Just the dearest cutest thing” 

She would have him take piano, 

Learn to crochet, and to tat; 

In short, she would make a sissy 
Of the pesky little brat. 

I would have him be an athlete — 

Have him ev ’ry inch a man, 

Quick to think, and big and brawny, 
Rough and tough, with cheeks of tan; 


AND OTHER POEMS 


Level headed and red blooded, 
Charged with pep, and full of grit. 
For life’s battles that await him 
I would have the youngster fit. 

But I’ve watched the laddie lately— 
Watched him at his work and play, 
And he seems not to be taking 
To mine nor his mother’s way. 
Seems to me that I can see him 
Growing up between our plan, 

And I’ve just about decided that 
He’ll be a GENTLE-MAN. 


THE BURIAL OF THE GYPSY BABE 


Disgusted 

A LMOST ev’ry morning of my life 
When mother’s dressing me, 

She says: “Daughter you must be as good 
Today as you can be; 

Please remember to be careful of the 
Things you say and do, 

Because your Dad is a minister and folks 
Are watching you. ’ ’ 

If I holler just the teeniest, or whistle, 
Climb or run, 

Like the other little girls I know, to have 
A bit of fun; 

Mother says : “My dear, don’t do that, 
You must have more dignity. 

Or some one will say your’re naughty, and 
’Twill hurt Dad’s ministry.” 

Preachers’ little girls can’t do a thing but 
Sit around all day 
In a chair like grown up people, and 
Watch other children play! 

['52] 


AND OTHER POEMS 


When I get to be a mother, folks may say 
I’m good or bad, 

But I will not have a minister to be 
My children’s Dad. 


[53] 


THE BURIAL OF THE GYPSY BABE 


That Brat of Mine 

I FLOPPED down in my easy chair 

And then I hopped right up from there— 
There was a pin in it somewhere. 

I found the pin and pulled it out, 

And then, as I was just about 
To sit again, I stuck my thumb, 

And fingers, in a wad of gum. 

I knew at once that it was done 
By my tousel-headed son. 

It made me mad enough to pop, 

So I grabbed up my razor strop 
Determined that I would not stop 
Until I’d licked the rowdy brat 
For playing tricks on me like that; 

I found him in the living room, 

Where, with a straw filched from the broom 
He was tickling his mother’s ears; 

He saw the strop and burst in tears: 

[54] 


AND OTHER POEMS 


“I stuck the pin in your arm chair 
Daddy, and put the gum on there 
For fun, didn’t think you would care!” 
And then I took the pesky brat 
And hugged him good and hard for that. 
Soon I was on my knees and hands 
Running around “to beat the bands” 
With that youngster astride of me, 
Kicking, and yelling: “Gee horse, gee.” 


THE BURIAL OF THE GYPSY BABE 


The Ragged Boy 

I KNOW a little ragged boy 

’At lives out in tlie street, 

Who alius has the dirt’es face, 

An’ dirt’es han’s an’ feet. 

His hair he never combs a-tall; 

His teeth he don’t brush them; 

An’ he was cryin’ ’isterday 
’Cause some boys fighted him. 

But I don’t never fight him none, 

I love him, ’cause I know 
His Pa and Ma is both died dead, 

An’ he don’t have no show. 

When I get grown I’m goin’ to be 
The riches’ man in town, 

Nen I will build the bigges’ house 
’At ever can be found, 

An’ give it to the orphant boys 
’At live out in the street, 

An’ buy ’em heaps an’ heaps o’ clo’es 
’An lots o’ fings to eat; 

[56] 


AND OTHER POEMS 


Nen I will bathe ’em ev’ry day— 
Don’t spec they’ll let me though— 
An’ teach ’em how to do, an’ be, 
’Cause they don’t have no show. 


[57] 


THE BURIAL OF THE GYPSY BABE 


Just Keep on Puttin’ Out 

S AY! Are you making a mess of success ? 

Just keep on puttin’ out! 

Fortune smiles not on him who would do less; 

Just keep on puttin ’ out! 

Seize opportunity tight ’round his throat; 
He’s rich in prospects and you hold his note; 
Wrestle with him until you get his goat; 

Just keep on puttin’ out! 

Don’t stop to whimper and fret when you fail; 

Just keep on puttin’ out! 

You’ll dig your grave with an out-of-luck tale; 

Just keep on puttin’ out! 

For you a prize on life’s ladder is hung, 

But you can’t get it by crying when stung; 
Tighten your belt lad and climb rung by rung; 
Just keep on puttin’ out! 

Have you a sore spot because of defeat? 

Just keep on puttin’ out! 

It will heal quickly when vict ’ry you meet; 
Just keep on puttin’ out! 

[58] 


AND OTHER POEMS 


Get in the running, mate, you’re not all in; 
Whining and sulking and quitting is sin. 
Attaboy; Ginger up! Go in and win; 

Just keep on puttin’ out! 


[ 59 ] 


THE BURIAL OF THE GYPSY BABE 


Consolation 

I T HAS been a long hard Winter 
On we common class of men, 

Things to eat have been quite seldom, 
Fuel scarce, and clothing thin; 

But the very dreary Winter’s 
Hardships soon will be forgot, 

Now that black-berries are ripening, 
And the weather’s getting hot. 

We have shivered through the Winter, 
We have fasted since the Fall, 

But we ’re happy in the knowledge 
That we’ll soon forget it all; 

Life grows brighter, burdens lighter 
Ev’ry hour, since we wot, 

That the black-berries are ripening, 
And the weather’s getting hot. 

Warmth and food in great abundance 
Are now coming our way, 

And if you should want to see us, 

You can find us any day 
[ 6 °] 


AND OTHER POEMS 


With tin buckets and our families 
Out on some brier plot; 

Now that black-berries are ripening, 

And the weather’s getting hot. 

We will make some jam and jelly, 

We will make some pie and tart, 

We will make some of most ev’rything 
That’s known to cooking art; 

And some stuff that’s good for snake-bite 
Will be made likely as not, 

Now that black-berries are ripening, 

And the weather’s getting hot. 


[61] 


THE BURIAL OF THE GYPSY BABE 


Up Against It 


I ’VE toiled and I’ve sweated 
And nervously fretted 
At building a sermon for two hours past; 

My brain has stopped going 
And I am a-throwing 

A fit, in completing “my third and my last.” 


I cannot express it, 

No, not even guess it; 

0 my, how the problem my tired brain annoys 
I wish that I knew who, 

But I do not, do you 

Know who was the father of Zebedee’s boys? 


I’ve frazzled my mind out 
In efforts to find out 

The name of the character in the sea tale; 
Was it Jehu or Joaz 
Or Jethro or Boaz 

Or Joab or Judas engulfed by the whale? 
[62] 


AND OTHER POEMS 


My sermon’s a riddle 
For both ends and middle 
Are nothing but bungled and jungled confusion. 
I’d give my last penny, 

And more, had I any, 

To know on which end I should put the con¬ 
clusion. 


[ 63 ] 


THE BURIAL OF THE GYPSY BABE 


Sweet Potato Pie 

W E ARE blest down here in Dixie 
With a lot of things to eat, 

We have eats in great abundance 
From the sour to the sweet; 

But of all the good things that we have, 
I never can deny, 

That my appetite is leaning, 

To a sweet potato pie. 

The potato is a nourishment 
That’s always mighty fine, 

If you take it from the bank, 

Or if you take it from the vine. 
There are many ways to cook it 
But it seems to me that I 
Have a growing sort of fondness, 

For a sweet potato pie. 

When I come in from my labor 
To my humble little shack, 

So hungry that the front of me 
Is sticking to my back; 

[ 64 ] 


AND OTHER POEMS 


If the Missus would allow me 
I could eat—and not half try— 
Till I bust, then not have enough, 
Of a sweet potato pie. 

You can rant about the high-brow 
Eats prepared in Prenchy ways, 
But I’ll chant the praise of sweet 
Potato pie through all my days; 
I have said it, I still say it, 

And will say till I die, 

That the world’s best institution 
Is a sweet potato pie. 


[65] 


THE BURIAL OF THE GYPSY BABE 


Go to It 

A RE yon known as “common cattle” 
Are you discouraged and blue? 
Go to it! 

Have you lost out in life’s battle? 

Let me tell you what to do, 

Go to it! 

Do not mope around expecting 
To be pulled up by “the ring,” 
Go-to-it-ness will beat a pull, 

Go to it is the thing. 

Lots of men have failed in life 

Because they tried to “pull a string” 
You go to it! 

Do not grope about repining 

’Cause you’re in tough to the chin, 

Go to it! 

Or think you’ll get out by whining, 

That will get you deeper in, 

Go to it! 

Life is full of bumps and bruises 
And the going always steep, 

[66] 


AND OTHER POEMS 


But you’ll get to some place by and 
By if courage you will keep. 

Turn around and face the mountains, 

Grit your teeth, don’t stop to cheep, 

But go to it! 

You may dislike my presumption 
And the words of slangy slang 
Go to it! 

Still I hold that grit and gumption 
Will land you above the gang. 

Go to it! 

Oh! You curl your lips and say: “Why 
Don’t you practice what you’ve taught,” 

Since the halls of fame contain no trace 
Of wpnders I have wrought; 

But I answer you old pal and say, 

I’m conscious that I ought 
To go to it! 


[ 67 ] 


THE BURIAL OP THE GYPSY BABE 


Seeing One’s Self 

I WENT to Church on yesterday 
And sat out in a pew 
To see and hear myself preach, from 
A layman’s point of view; 

The things I saw, and heard, while 
I was sitting in that pew, 

Knocked all the pride out of my hide, 

And left me feeling blue. 

In stature I’m a foot too short, 

In weight I’m much too light, 

My skin’s about two shades too dark, 

Although I pass for white. 

My ears are three sizes too large, 

The same goes for my feet, 

My hair looks like the stuff that’s used 
To pad a buggy seat. 

My voice is cracked, I screeched, and screamed, 
I showed no pulpit grace, 

But danced and pranced from side to side, 
And gestered out of place. 

[68] 


AND OTHER POEMS 


My sermon was a bunch of scraps 
From many sources brought, 

Its most outstanding feature was 
Its emptiness of thought. 

I once thought my people were mean 
And stingy with their pelf, 

But these are views I held before 
I saw and heard myself; 

I now believe them generous 
And loyal to the brim, 

Else they would charge, instead of pay, 
To have me preach to them. 

While you were reading the above 
I hope you smiled the while, 

Because you may not feel like it, 

When you know it is guile 
Pure guile it is. I penned this rhyme 
To YOU, that I might teach 
YOU, what I thought of YOU, the time 
I heard YOU, try to preach. 


[69] 


THE BURIAL OF THE GYPSY BABE 


His Alma Mater 

I T TEARS to me that this old world 
Gets worser ev’ry day; 

I’d not be s’prised ef some great plague 
Should take us all away. 

There’s our neighbor—a college man— 
That upstart Henry Slater; 

Got as good wife as ever lived 
An’ him lovin’ Alma Mater. 

I went to see him jes’ las’ week 
To get a nutmeg grater; 

An’ there he sot before the fire 
Writin’ ’bout Alma Mater. 

His wife is stayin’ with us now, 

She’s sofe as a pertater, 

To let him go off on the train 
To see that Alma Mater. 

Ef my man starts a thing like that 
I ’ll rise like a tornater, 

An’ let him know at once that he 
Can’t love no Alma Mater. 


AND OTHER POEMS 


De Nigger’s Hour 

D E NIGGER he don’t have no han’ 
In politics today, 

But dere is cornin’ uv a time 
W’en he will have ’is way. 

You se de white folks dey don’t raise 
No chilluns eny more, 

But dey is raisin’ poodle dogs, 

An’ lovin’ ’em fer shore. 

Whilst ef you take de nigger’s house 
You’ll fin’ in ebry one 
Dat dey is raisin’ niggers same 
As dey is alius done. 

Dis bein ’ de case, its plain to see 
De time is drawin’ near, 

W ’en poodle dogs an niggers will 
Be all dat’s livin’ here. 

So w’en dis time is come about, 

’Twell be de nigger’s hour 
To rise an’ kill de poodle dogs, 

An’ git ’isself in power. 

[7i] 


THE BURIAL OF THE GYPSY BABE 


The Chicken Gizzard 

Y OU may rave about the dainties 

That are served in swell cafes. 
You may crave the fancy salads 
Freely slimed with mayonnaise. 

But if you should ever ask me 

What’s the best thing made to eat 
I would say the lowly chicken 
Gizzard’s awful hard to beat. 

I have been around a little 
And I’ve sampled lots of grub, 

And they serve it in the big hotel, 

The cafe, and the club; 

But I run their menu over, 

And there doesn’t seem to be 
Anything like chicken gizzard, 

When it comes to pleasing me. 

I’m a latest model husband, 

And can prove it by my wife, 

And I want to be a father 
To my children all my life; 

[ 72 ] 


AND OTHER POEMS 


But we have this understanding 
That when we on chicken dine, 
They can have their choice of all 
Except the gizzard, for its mine. 


[73] 


THE BURIAL OF THE GYPSY BABE 


Settin* Down 

E VER since I can remember 

I’ve enjoyed jes settin’ down; 
An’ I seem to like it better 

As the years come rollin’ ’roun’; 

I have tried a lot o’ pleasures 
But I ain’t foun’ nothin’ yet 
That will fit my constitution 
Half so well as jes to set. 

When I wake up in the mornin’s 
I am alius on my toes 
Till I’ve washed my face a little, 

An’ got on my shoes an’ clo’es; 
Coz when all o ’ this is over, 

An’ my breakfas’ has been et, 

I can go to town an’ find a 
Place to set down at, an’ set. 

When the July sun is shinin’ 

Hot enough to scorch the groun’, 
Seems to me I’m then obleeged to 
Do a lot o’ settin’ down, 

[ 74 ] 


AND OTHER POEMS 


Coz my health is alius better 
An’ I don’t get over het 

If I hunt the shady places 
An’ jes set right there, jes set. 

Should I ever he so lucky 
As to reach that Country fair, 

I ’ll be satisfied to take things 
As I find ’em over there; 

But if they’s a cozy corner over there 
I will not fret, 

If I’m told that I can set in it, 

Jes set in it, an’ set. 


[75] 


THE BURIAL OF THE GYPSY BABE 


Ham A-Frying 

I N GARDENS fair there are flowers rare 
That do me good to smell ’em; 

And new-mown hay on a summer day 
Is not so had, you tell ’em! 

But there is nothing quite so fine 
And pleasing to this nose o ’ mine, 

As country ham a-frying. 

When days are hot and it is my lot 
To work in Sun that’s broiling, 

And I have won when the day is done, 

An appetite by toiling; 

Seems I could take an Indian squaw 
And eat her baked or boiled or raw, 

If I smell ham a-frying. 

Should I perchance fall into a trance, 

There ’ll be no need for weeping; 

Just fry some ham close to where I am, 

And though I’m soundly sleeping, 

’Twill not take long for me to rise 
And look about with wistful eyes 
To find that ham a-frying. 

[76] 


AND OTHER POEMS 


His First Kiss 

I WUS som’ers nigh on twenty, 

She wns jest about eighteen, 

I a gawky, bashful plow boy, 

She a buxum country queen. 

I had called one night to see her 
As I’d done often before, 

But had never dared to tell her 
Of the love for her I bore. 

She wus settin’ down close to me 
Pickin’ petals from a rose, 

An’ her sweet an’ purty hair wus 
Almost techin’ of my nose; 

When I lost my head, an’ quicker 
Than it takes to tell it in, 

I had hauled away an’ kissed her 
Right kerdab upon her chin. 

Then she up an’ says: “You stop that 
Now or I will tell my Ma! ’ ’ 

An’ I thought I’d best be goin’ 

Coz her Ma might tell her Pa. 

[ 77 ] 


THE BURIAL OP THE GYPSY BABE 

Honey drops, an’ sweetened lightening 
Sunny days, an’ moonlight bliss, 

All mixed up in ekle portions 
Seems to me wus in that kiss. 

Next day I wrote her a letter 
Jest as humble as could be, 

Askin’ her to please forgive me, 

An’ if she would marry me; 

She replied that she would take me, 

If I’d promise there an’ then 
To behave myself an’ never, 

Never do that way agin. 


[78] 


AND OTHER POEMS 


If I Could Hold Her Hand 

I ’M alius glad when Sunday’s come 
So I can put my good clo’es on, 

An’ see my Susie Ann. 

Don’t neither of us make much speech, 

But she and me set side by each, 

An’ I jes hold her han’. 

Ain’t had such luck since I’ve been born, 
My cotton, cane, peanuts an’ corn, 

Ain’t more’n half a stan’; 

But I don’t worry none ’bout this, 

Coz life is full o’ joy an’ bliss 
When I can hold her han’. 

I asked her Pa if I could wed 
His girl an’ he got mad an’ said: 

‘'What’s your prospects young man?” 
An’ then I ups an’ says outright, 

My prospects sir, would be real bright, 

If I could hold her han’. 


[ 79 ] 


THE BURIAL OF THE GYPSY BABE 


He lowed that ‘Fore I took a wife 
I’d better have a start in life — 

A home and piece o’ lan’. 

But I don’t want no home a-tall, 
Nor lan’, nor nothin’ plague it all, 
’Cept jes to hold her han’. 


AND OTHER POEMS 


Spring Fever 

T HE cows are standing in the shade 
A-chewing of the end, 

The hogs are having them a time 
A-wallowing in mud. 

And something’s got a-hold of me, 

I can’t get loose from it; 

It makes me want to sit all day — 

Jnst sit, and sit, and sit. 

The hawks are sqnaking overhead 
A-flying ’round and ’round, 

The hens are sunning in the sun, 
A-lying on the ground; 

And something’s got a-hold of me, 

I’m some bad feeling wretch; 

Don’t want to do a thing all day 
But stretch, and stretch, and stretch. 

The bumble bees are bumming in 
The sunshine ’bout the door, 

The hound dog’s leg is scratching fleas, 
A-drumming on the floor; 

[81] 


THE BURIAL OF THE GYPSY BABE 


And something’s got a-hold of me, 

I ought to plant my cawn, 

But I can’t do a blessed thing 
But yawn, and yawn, and yawn. 


[82] 


AND OTHER POEMS 


Pa 


OME folks say that Pa is crazy, 



And I think his mind is hazy; 
But Ma says he’s downright lazy, 
And is getting worse. 

She says that the time he’s losing 
Sitting ’round all day a-musing — 
Half awake and half a-snoozing 
Would be better spent at work 
Than at writing verse. 

Pa he never seems to worry, 

Never seems in any hurry, 

But Ma goes into a flurry 
At him oftentimes. 

She tells him that he’s no poet, 

That the verse he writes will show it, 
And its time for him to know it; 

But it don’t bother Pa none, 

He keeps writing rhymes. 


[83] 


THE BURIAL OF THE GYPSY BABE 


Other day while Pa was setting 
In his easy chair, a-getting 
Thoughts to make a poem on ‘ ‘ Sweating 
Is a manly deed;” 

Ma said: “Pa go get some flour, 

And some pickles,— get the sour — 

And he back in half an hour; 

Pa just looked at her and said: 

What’ll rhyme with deed?” 


[ 84 ] 


AND OTHER POEMS 


A Lot O’ Living 


T ERE is a lot o’ living 

In this world of ours today, 
If we will take the time to let 
Imagination play. 

When I grow tired of native land 
And weary of my times, 

I let my fancy take me back 
To other days and climes. 


Sometimes I am Napoleon on 
The field of Waterloo, 

Maneuvring the battle in 
A way he failed to do; 

And when I see my faithful guard 
A-charging up the hill, 

And making Blucher’s men high ball 
It gives me quite a thrill. 


At other times I dress up swell 
And with my winning ways 
Go break into society, 

In prehistoric days; 

[ 85 ] 


THE BURIAL OF THE GYPSY BABE 


I lord it o’er the cave men 
And enjoy their jealousy, 

When they behold their women folk 
A-making eyes at me. 

Yes, there’s a lot o’ living in 
This big old world today, 

If we will take the time to let 
Imagination play; 

I make no boast of superman, 

But I am frank to say 
That I pity the fellow who 
Can only live today. 


[ 86 ] 


AND OTHER POEMS 


Stung Again 

A N OLD maid sat beside a brook 
In Spring-time of the year 
Musing, and wishing that she had 
Someone to call her dear. 

And as she sat and mused and wished 
A man would come and find her, 

A big black bear came from the woods 
And crept up close behind her. 

He put his arms about her waist 
And held her hard and fast; 

She smiled sweetly and said to him; 
“So glad you’ve come at last!” 

But when she saw that ’twas a bear, 
Her joy was over soon ; 

She faintly whispered: “ Stung again, ’’ 
And fell into a swoon. 

The old bear muttered to himself: 

‘‘ This is my feasting hour; 

But when he took a bite he found 
Her flesh too dry and sour. 

[ 87 ] 


THE BURIAL OF THE GYPSY BABE 


Help! Help! 

HERE’s a very pretty opening 
In this handsome face of mine, 



Leading to a cave inside me, 

That has cost me cash and time. 

I have filled that cave three times a 
Day for forty years *or more, 

And each day finds it as empty 
As it was the day before. 

For some twenty years of work days 
I have used up ev-ry minute, 
Getting cash to buy provisions 
That were good to shovel in it; 

But ’tis easier to keep a 
Politician full of grace, 

Than to keep that hollow full 
By poking rations through my face. 

I have tried so long to keep it 
Full until it is a bore, 

So yesterday I decided not to 
Try it any more; 


[ 88 ] 


AND OTHER POEMS 


But before the day had ended 
It set up a growling noise 
That gave me the nervous jim-jams, 
Robbing me of all life’s joys. 

So I started out this morning 
To fill up that cavity, 

And the way I shoved the filling in 
Was worth a lot to see; 

I put ham, and eggs, and beefsteak in, 
And chicken, pie, and cake, 

But the thing does not appreciate it, 
Or it wouldn’t ache. 


[89] 


THE BURIAL OF THE GYPSY BABE 


Mary’s Little Dress 

M ARY has a little dress 
Made of pink chiffon, 
And everywhere that Mary goes 
She has that pink dress on. 

It’s just an inexpensive dress 
Minus tucks and frills, 

I judge that it could be covered 
With two one dollar bills. 

When Mary wears it on the street 
The men act quite contrary, 
They do not see much of the dress 
But see a heap of Mary. 

She wore it to a dance one night 
And though he hadn’t oughter, 
Her partner dropped a tear on it 
Then ’twas all wet with water. 


[90] 


AND OTHER POEMS 


Why the Flapper Giggles 

T HERE is a Flapper in our town 

Who wears her silk stockings rolled down, 
And when yon see this girl yon will 
Hear her giggling fit to kill. 

She starts her giggling ev’ry day 
When she arises from the hay 
And keeps it np with all her might 
Until she goes to bed at night. 

I’m sure that yon would like to know 
Just why this Flapper giggles so; 

The secret is (don’t tell her please!) 

Her skirt tickles her naked knees. 


[9i] 


THE BURIAL OF THE GYPSY BABE 


A-Hunting Hens* Nest 

G ONE is the winter’s gloom again, 
The flowers are in bloom again, 
The birds are singing merrily, 

The trees are newly drest. 

This makes me want to be again 
A petted child and free again, 
A-moseying around the place 
A’hunting hens nest. 

To come back to the house again 
With checkered homespun blouse again 
Filled with a dozen eggs or more 
I’d gathered in my quest. 

To know the priceless bliss again 
Of mother’s thanks and kiss again 
For moseying around the place 
A’hunting hens nest. 

0 just to be a youth again 
Playing the part of sleuth again, 

A’shadowing Old Domineck 
Or trailing Yellow Breast. 


AND OTHER POEMS 


’Twould fill my cup with joy again 
To be my mother's hoy again, 
A-moseying around the place 
A’hunting hens nest. 

There’s cackling at the lot again; 

I see him strike a trot again, 

That tousled-headed brat of mine 
With which my home is blest. 

I chuckle at the elf again, 

Because I see myself again 
A-moseying around the place 
A’hunting hens nest. 


[93] 


THE BURIAL OF THE GYPSY BABE 


Bereaved 

T HERE’s a powerful lot o’ sadness 
In our family today 
Since the good Lord sent His angels 
Down an’ took Martha away; 

Wife an’ me set round a-lookin’ 

With our eyes in tears afloat, 

Coz we can’t say nothin’ hardly 
Fer the lump that’s in -our throat. 

“Little Martha” wus an angel 
That the good Lord sent to us; 
Never meant that we should keep her, 
She wus only lent to us — 

Jes’ to fill our home with sunshine 
By her cute an’ winnin’ knack, 

But they needed her in heaven, 

So the angels took her back. 

We will miss her baby prattle, 

Her caresses an’ her smile, 

But we’er thankful that the Father 
Lent her to us fer awhile, 

[94] 


\ 


AND OTHER POEMS 


Coz our borne is sweeter to us 
Than it wus, an’ sanctified, 

An’ we’re dearer to each other 
Since our baby lived an’ died. 

We now have a mut-al intrust 
In a sacred spot o’ ground 
Out where silent stars are watchin’ 
O’er our baby’s little mound, 

An’ we’ll often walk together 
In the beaten path that winds 
To that spot, to drop a tear upon 
That mound — the tie that binds. 


[95] 


THE BURIAL OF THE GYPSY BABE 


Lookin’ Back’ards 


G UESS I’m gettin’ sorter fogy— 
Kinder lost step with the rest; 
Bein’ that a-way I reckon 

I’m no judge of what is best; 

Still, a fogy has his prefrnnce, 

An’ I never shall deny 
That I’m partial t-o the meetin’s 
That we had ’n days gone by; 


Back when we had monthly meetin’ 

In the log Church near my home, 
When on hoss-back an’ in ox carts 
An’ on foot the folks would come; 
Not fer show, but fer the preachin’ 
An’ they all took heed o’ it, 

Fer then, folks went to meetin’ 

Coz they felt the need o’ it! 

Back when you could see along the isle 
A row o’ pallets spread, 

An ’ on each pallet a baby 
With a hunk o’ ginger bread; 

[96] 


AND OTHER POEMS 


When you’d often see a mother 
With a goblet in her hand, 

Gettin’ water fer her baby, 

From the pitcher on the stand. 

Back when some old saintly brother 
With the love light in his face, 

Led the people in the singin’ 

Of the hymn “Amazin’ Grace;” 

An’ a sister sung the treble 
In a clear an’ ringin’ tone, 

Like a silver hammer drivin’ nails 
To hang the dew drops on. 

Back when preachers preached the Gospel 
In a fiery way, an’ bold — 

When they talked much of damnation 
An’ the streets all paved with gold; 
When the saints done lots o’ shoutin’ 

An’ the sinners wept for sin, 

An’ the best o’ us were wishin’ 

We could join the Church ag’in. 

Guess I’m gettin’ sorter fogy — 

Kinder lost step with the rest; 

Bein’ that a-way I reckon 

I’m no judge of what is best; 

[97] 


THE BURIAL OP THE GYPSY BABE 

Still, a fogy has his prefrunce, 

An’ I’m not ashamed to say 
That my prefrunce is to worship 
In the good old fashion way. 


[98] 


AND OTHER POEMS 


A Pleasant Time 


M Y NOTION of a pleasant time 
Is after supper when 
My wife and I sit on the porch 
Discussing preacher men. 

With keenest joy I talk 

About my neighbor, Dr. Groove, 

Who’s fallen down at “Old First Church,” 
And how he’s got to move. 

And then, I smile almost aloud 
And tell of brother Howe, 

Who’s salary is ’way behind, 

Because he’s had a row. 

The more I talk along this line 
The happier I feel, 

Until my wife knocks me awry, 

With her sarcastic spiel. 

She says: That of all preacher men, 

I have no room to brag 
Because when I move to a charge 
The work begins to lag. 

[99] 



THE BURIAL OF THE GYPSY BABE 


“That I’ve no right to criticise 
Others till I improve 
And then she gives as proof *of this, 
The fact that I must move. 

Now that’s a woman up and down, 
They never seem to know 
That talking ’bout a neighbor’s faults 
Can ease one’s conscience so. 


[IOO] 















